“No, Momma!” Dale says loudly, and suddenly she is thirteen years old again, when all of this started—back after her father first left and she could still hear his voice in her head at night when she closed her eyes, singing the lullabies he’d never sang. She’d press her pillow against her ear to drown it out, but it was still there. And it was there even when she wasn’t dreaming, whispering, Let me take you for ice cream, sweetie, telling her to meet him at the Thrifty. You want peppermint, sweetie? With jimmies? And then she was putting one foot in front of the other, tracing the white lines that separated the lanes of traffic. She could hear the cars honking, but he kept coaxing, insisting. Her sneakers were new, brand-new and white. She dragged them as she walked, scuffing them against the dirty pavement. One foot in front of the other. And then her mother was running across three lanes of traffic to get her, but she kept walking and the horns kept honking. When her mother reached her, putting one heavy arm around her shoulders and trying to steer her toward the median, Dale screamed, “No, Momma!” and sat down in the middle of the road.
There was the hospital after that, the emergency room first for the bump on her head (how did that happen?) and then later all the swirly pills, a flimsy paper cup, lukewarm water and sleep. Until finally, the Tilt-A-Whirl finally slowed down. And she wasn’t dizzy anymore; she could finally feel the ground beneath her feet. And she understood that you don’t ever walk down the middle of the street in the middle of the summer in Phoenix.
No one knew about those days, and even the memory of all that seemed to belong to someone else. And as long as she kept taking the pills, for years (how many?), she was normal. She went to school. She stood in line at the cafeteria holding an orange plastic tray. She raised her hand in class. She took tap dancing lessons. She swam in Sarah’s piss-warm pool. Her mother gave the pills to her along with a chalky Flintstone vitamin every morning. She went to her appointments at Dr. Middleton’s office, sat in his scratchy chair. When one pill stopped working he gave her another. The record kept spinning. She was normal. Normal. She went to high school. College. She wrote papers on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
She only stopped taking the pills when she was feeling better. When she fell in love with Fitz. And then later when she started to write her book. She had a hard time concentrating at first. The pills made the words too soft. But when she stopped taking them, all of a sudden it was like the clouds lifted. It reminded her of the time when she was ten and she’d had to have her ears irrigated. After the whoosh of warm water, and the earwax came out in ugly brown chunks, she could hear again. Clarity. The drugs had stuffed up her head. And now all that junk, that smothering cumulus was gone, leaving only the clear blue sky of her real thoughts.
Dale hears the door to the next motel room over open. She looks out the window, but the Mercedes is still not there. She runs back to the bathroom and then wonders if they are on the other side of the wall with their own glasses, listening.
“Momma?” she whispers into the phone, and then she turns on the water in the tub so whoever is listening won’t be able to hear her.
“What is it, honey?”
The water crashes into the tub, Niagara Falls, and Dale sits down on the toilet lid.
“Dale?”
“Love you, Momma,” Dale says, flips the phone closed, and tosses it into the water.
Mena makes bread. She watches her hands as they pull the hot loaves from the oven. As they pour olive oil into a pan, as they cut through the yielding rind of a lemon. She listens as the oil crackles and spits, contemplates the way the shrimp curl in on themselves as she tosses them into the heat.
Every night, they came together for dinner. She knew it was a luxury a lot of other families did not have: this ability to convene at the dining room table at the same time each evening. This ritual was a relic of some other time. Her friends, like Hilary and Becca, with their busy lives and busy husbands and busy children, complained that their families were like ships passing in the night. Dinner was something grabbed quickly from the refrigerator or eaten at the desk by the glow of a computer monitor.When their children came over to play with Franny or Finn, they were fascinated by this nightly communion, by the smells in the kitchen and the six o’clock gathering around the table. She was the only mother she knew who planned meals for the family an entire week in advance, who started thinking about what she would feed her family the moment she rolled out of bed in the morning.
The first time Franny missed dinner for ballet class, Mena felt like someone was tearing her heart out. At first it was just on Tuesday evenings. Mena didn’t like it, but it wasn’t as though she had a choice. That was the only time Intermediate Pointe was offered. But by her sophomore year there were classes on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. On Fridays. And then there were rehearsals. Sam and Finn and Mena still assembled at dinnertime, but Franny whisked through the kitchen, her ratty ballet bag slung over her shoulder, grabbing a banana or apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter. Mena would fill a plate and save it in the oven for her, but Franny always said she had gotten something after class: grabbed a piece of pizza with friends, a bowl of noodles, a cheeseburger.
Breakfast in the morning was always on the go: hot muffins or thick slices of homemade toast swaddled in napkins and cradled in hands on their way out the door. The lunches Mena packed, stuffed into brown paper sacks.
The doctor warned Franny at her physical earlier that summer that she was too thin, and she’d shrugged it off. He’d smiled when she’d explained her hectic schedule. Mena had sat in the uncomfortable chair and looked at Franny’s long, thin legs dangling from the examination table. She was swimming inside the paper gown, her collarbone and elbows razor sharp.
When the doctor sent Franny to the restroom with a plastic cup, he’d said to Mena, “Have you noticed anything different in Franny’s eating habits? In her exercising habits? Does she skip meals? Avoid eating around other people? She’s lost seven pounds since her visit last year.”
Mena had felt like she’d been slapped. She thought of Franny’s empty space at the table.
“She’s always been thin. She and her brother were preemies. She was always in the bottom tenth percentile.” Mena wrung her hands.
“Her BMI is sixteen point five,” the doctor said, his brow furrowed.
Mena waited for an explanation.
“Body mass index. She’s underweight, not severely, but it is a red flag. Are her periods regular?”
Mena blushed, looked down at her hands in her lap, watched as they twisted and turned.
“Besides her weight, she appears to be a healthy young woman. I’ve ordered a complete blood workup, and we’ll do a urine test. But we need to consider the possibility that there is an underlying psychological problem.”
Mena shook her head. “She’s fine,” she says, smiling. “She does well in school. She’s just very, very active. I’ll make sure she eats. She forgets sometimes.”
“I want to make a referral. My wife has a friend who specializes in eating disorders.”
Wide-eyed, Mena had taken the doctor’s name and stuffed it into her purse.
In the car, she said, “The doctor is worried about your weight.”
Franny swatted the air in front of her and laughed.
“He says you need to start eating more. And healthier stuff. No more French fries for dinner. No more vending machine snacks. I’m going to start sending some real food for you to have between school and ballet.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Franny said, leaning her head against the back of the seat and smiling at Mena. “Don’t worry,” she said then, and squeezed Mena’s hand. Mena felt the bones in her grasp and it made a shiver run down her back.
“Promise,” Mena said.
“I promise.”
Tonight the room smells so good: lemon and garlic. She crumbles the block of feta in her hands. She rolls her neck, feels the headache in its nape. She closes her eyes and opens them again. Tosses the last of the shrimp into the
hot oil. Checks on the soup that simmers in a pot on the stove.
“Dinner!” she hollers.
Alice sits next to Finn, clutching his hand under the table. His mother has made a feast. She does this when she’s upset—cooks as though they’re having the queen of England over for dinner. He wonders what could be wrong. She’d seemed so happy that morning. He wonders if she suspects anything, if they’ve figured out his plan to ditch them and head back to California.
Four plates circle the table. Candles glow warmly in the center. They smell like cinnamon. Avgolemono, his favorite soup, in four steaming bowls. Bread, hot from the oven.
Alice smiles nervously and squeezes his hand.
“So you have family in California?” Mena asks Alice, loading her plate with shrimp and rice and handing it to her.
Alice nods, ladling some of the soup with her spoon. “My mom’s aunt. She lives in Barstow. We’re just going to stay with her for a while, until all this stuff with my dad gets straightened out.”
His dad seems distracted. He keeps glancing out the window, like he’s expecting somebody.
Finn has stashed his backpack in the barn. He packed some T-shirts and jeans, boxers and a toothbrush. Enough cash for a bus ticket and a credit card he stole from his father’s wallet. The plan is that in the morning he’ll offer to take Alice on his bike to the bus station. He’ll ditch the bike there and get on the bus. He hasn’t thought too far past this. Of course, he’ll call them once they’ve been on the road for a couple of hours. He doesn’t want them to worry. A part of his heart snags a little when he thinks of what his mom will do when she figures out he’s gone.
The soup is so good. They eat quietly.
“What was the name of that Mexican restaurant in Barstow, Sammy?” Mena asks.
“Hmm?” he says. He’s out of it. Totally distracted.
“Remember that time we took the Forty to Flagstaff and drove through Barstow with the kids? They had this burrito, a chile relleno burrito ... it was so decadent. A chile relleno wrapped up inside a burrito,” Mena explains to Alice. “Remember, the kids got the chicken pox? We didn’t realize until we got to Barstow, to that restaurant?” His mom seems exasperated.
Sam nods. “I don’t remember.”
“God, Sam. Remember? It was that restaurant with the giant fake cactus out front? I took Franny to the bathroom, and her whole stomach was already covered with spots.” Finn should have known whatever was going on that morning wouldn’t last. They all look at Sam. Jesus, Dad, just say you remember.
“I remember the chicken pox, Mena. But I can’t remember the name of the restaurant,” he says.
Mena shakes her head, as if clearing it. She rubs her temples. Shit, it looks like she’s getting one of her headaches again.
“Anyway, Alice.” She forces a smile, reaches for Alice’s hand. “Look for the place with the big fake saguaro cactus out front. And, oh, the sopapillas and fried ice cream. So good.”
Alice nods.
Finn is mortified. His family is a bunch of freaks. He can’t wait to get the hell back to California.
“What was that?” Sam asks, standing up, walking across the living room to the window that faces the water.
“What’s the matter?” Mena asks. She rubs her temples again.
“I thought I heard something outside.”
“It’s pretty windy out,” Mena says. “The radio says there might be a thunderstorm tonight.”
Sam is pacing, looking out the windows.
“You okay, Dad?” Finn asks.
Dale gets in the Bug and starts the engine. A plume of smoke billows out behind her. The lights are out in the motel room next to hers. The Mercedes is still gone. She feels around under the seat to make sure the manuscript is still there. She pops in one of the Books on Tape and takes a deep breath. She looks at her reflection in the rearview mirror and smoothes a crease in the yellow dress. It won’t flatten though, no matter how hard she presses. But she keeps pressing and pressing and pressing until her leg hurts, and then she stops.
She drives through town, follows the turn-by-turn directions she printed out. She passes the library, the Town Hall, the cemetery. As she drives past the public pool, she notices the way the air glows green around it. For a minute she thinks about how nice it would be to stop and take a swim. How she and Sarah used to sip Bartles & Jaymes cranberry wine coolers and swim in her pool at night. She slows down at the pool’s gated entrance but doesn’t stop, even to get out of the car for a second. No. She has to remember why she’s here, what she’s doing. She has to try to quiet her mind, stay focused.
By the time she gets to the turnoff that will lead to the lake, the air feels heavy, buzzing. The sun has set, but the sky is luminous. The stars pulsate in the peacock blue sky. She studies the tops of the trees, which lean eastward. The Bug lists across the road with the steady wind. She’s at the mercy of the breeze. It feels almost strong enough to pick the little car up and toss it across the road.
The houses begin to thin out, and soon there are wide expanses of pastures dotted with cows, all lying down. The moon hangs like a marionette in the sky.
Up ahead she sees a gas station, a little convenience store. The neon OPEN sign is on, and there are a few cars parked in the lot. The gas gauge in the Bug is broken, but she’s pretty sure she should get some more gas. She pulls into the lot and turns off the engine.
It’s one of those places where you have to pay before you pump, so she rifles through her purse. She’s almost out of cash, and the credit card is nearly maxed out. It’s a good thing she’s finally here. She laughs out loud, plucking a forgotten crumpled ten-dollar bill from the depths of her bag.
“Five dollars, please,” she says cheerfully, and grabs two Kit Kat bars from the rack below the counter.
She unwraps the first chocolate bar as the tank fills. She cracks one Kit Kat off and pops the whole stick in her mouth. It’s so sweet, it almost brings tears to her eyes. She quickly devours the remaining pieces and stuffs the empty wrapper in her pocket. She’ll save the other one for later. The wind wraps around her like an embrace, and the pump clicks off.
It would be easy to miss the turnoff. The dirt road is obscured by thick leaves. Someone has hand-painted a sign and nailed it to the trunk of a tree. If she didn’t have her high beams on, she would have missed it.
It says: GORMLAITH →
She grips the steering wheel tightly; she’s a little dizzy, and this helps ground her. She turns slowly onto the road, and as the gravel and dirt crush under her tires, the air rumbles. There is a flash of lightning in the distance, and it illuminates the whole sky. She feels the shock of it pass through her body.
The road is winding and narrow. She is surrounded on either side by towering trees that bow in deference to the wind. The passenger side window doesn’t close all the way, and there is a steady whistle as the wind winds its way in through the crack.
She looks at the map, but it is too dark to see. She knows the road she is on circles the lake, but there is no lake in sight. How long has she been driving on this road? The map had said it was two miles from the turnoff to the lake, but the odometer, like everything else in this stupid car, doesn’t work. She’s about to pull over to look at the map again when another flash of lightning reveals the glistening surface of water through a thick patch of trees and brush. Her heart thumps wildly in her chest.
Now she just has to slowly circle the lake until she finds the station wagon from the photo, the one she’d seen in town. She’d left Sam a note, though she was too afraid to sign her name. She wanted to surprise him, but she couldn’t resist giving him a little hint that she was here.
She passes several cottages. Some of them are lit up inside, their inhabitants’ silhouettes moving behind the windows. There is one cottage with a swing out front, stained glass windows splattering color across the dark grass. Thunder cracks like a slap, and her heart jumps to her throat. She creeps slowly forward, studying every drivewa
y. Searching.
The tape in the tape deck is almost over. It is Small Sorrows, her least favorite of all of his books. But the end redeems the rest of the novel. And what a coincidence that this is what is playing now: He wades into the water, looks at the girl floating luminous in the lake. It could be just the moon’s reflection in the shape of a girl. What do you do with the remains of a human life? With the perfect geometry of ribs? Build a castle of eyelashes, a fortress of bones, a quilt of flesh sewn together with hair? What do you do with what’s left when a life is gone? Dale’s eyes sting. With the next flash of light, she can see the entire lake before her, spread out like a dream.
She wipes her wet eyes with the back of her hand and grips the wheel. She squeezes her eyes shut, and when she opens them again she sees something running in front of the car. She slams on the brakes and yanks the wheel to the left. There is a terrible squeal followed by a series of horrible yelps.
Oh God, it’s an animal. She’s hit an animal.
The car teeters and then dips down into a ditch, and her head smashes against the steering wheel. No, no, no, she says, and opens up the door of the car. Underneath the car, cowering and wailing in the dark, is a dog. Its eyes are glowing, and it is still making that awful sound.
She looks all around her for help. She runs back down the road in the direction from which she came, but the only cabin in sight is pitch black. There are no cars in the driveway except for a truck propped up on concrete blocks. She touches her forehead when she feels something warm. It’s blood. No, no, no.
She goes back to the Bug and peers under the car again. She’s afraid to try to get the dog out; she knows it’s probably dangerous to move a wounded animal. She has to get help. She needs to find Sam. She glances around again, looking for someone, anyone to help her figure out what to do next. The dog moans and cries. She covers her ears, shakes her head, and then starts to run.
The Hungry Season Page 25